


i love(d) you

by extraordinarilyextreme



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 17:02:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20246260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extraordinarilyextreme/pseuds/extraordinarilyextreme
Summary: This is everything they’ve poured into their Force-bond, every mission they’ve gone on together, every chat and meal and mediation and training session; they are two sides of the same blade. There is no Crowley without Aziraphale, no Aziraphale without Crowley.(A Jedi Knight who has lost his faith in the Force and a Sith Lord who clings desperately to it.)





	1. Chapter 1

It was a nice day. As in, it is currently not nice. They found their crystals as the Force danced around them both in the caves, sweet and powerful, and their masters looked proud.

But it is currently not a nice day.

It is starting to rain, and they are standing on the balcony outside their living quarters.

“Where is your kyber crystal?” Crowley asks, one hand messing with his red braid.

“Er.” Aziraphale looks down, where the Force has concentrated on a figure running through the streets. His empty hands clutch the railing, knuckles starting to turn white with strain.

“You did find yours today too, didn’t you?”

“Er, well—”

“Ours matched, I thought. Both blue.”

“Yes, but, well—”

Crowley rests his cheek in his palm, somehow lounging despite the fact they are indeed both still standing. Aziraphale refuses to meet his gaze, and it’s, well, surely he knows Crowley is just teasing, right?

“I gave it away,” the other Padawan finally mumbles, burying his face in his hands.

“You _what_?”

“I gave it away!” and he looks close to tears. “Crowley, he needed it, he was just a child too, and I thought, well, where’s the harm…”

(_Fix this!_ Crowley panics.)

“We’re children too,” he says softly, pushing the other’s braid out of blue eyes. “You know what they do with the crystals, don’t you?”

Aziraphale feels the Force relax, finally, as the rain really begins to pour. The child made it to wherever he needed to be, a source of good money in those small hands. He lifts his white cloak for Crowley to step under out of the droplets.

“How about this,” Crowley continues, because his companion is still quiet, “we’ll sneak back into the caves tonight and you can find another one. The Force loves you.”

(Maybe there’s a touch of envy here.)

But Aziraphale smiles a little at him. “Oh, I do hope so. Thank you.”

...

Later that night, Aziraphale beams as he pats a towel down on Crowley’s wet hair. Another glowing blue crystal is tucked away in the pockets of his cloak, and it is still quite a nice day after all.

He leaves the other Padawan to dry his hair as he climbs up to the top bunk. “In the morning, you will wake up, and you will have had a lovely dream about whatever you like best.”

The Force yields to Aziraphale. It always will.

Crowley smothers a grin with the towel before chucking a spare pillow up at the other smiling face. “May the Force be with you, angel.”

“May the Force be with you, Crowley. Goodnight.”

(In Crowley’s dreams, he and Aziraphale lead the Jedi Council, side-by-side as they’ve always been. The Sith do not exist, neither do messy and corrupt politics, nor crime and betrayal. He flies Aziraphale to Alpha Centauri, and the Force welcomes them home.)

...

They are given their last big mission before their Jedi ceremony. Aziraphale is nowhere to be seen in the loading dock, so Crowley checks the library first, then their room, before he goes down to the lakes and pools.

Aziraphale is tucked away by the one with the small waterfall, sitting at the bankside, feet in the water.

Crowley taps his shoulder, though their Force-bond is strong enough that the other isn’t even surprised by his appearance. “Hello, Aziraphale!”

“Crowley.”

He’s got that terrible look about him again, where the Force wraps itself tightly around him, makes him smaller, hides him.

(Crowley wants to wrap himself tightly around Aziraphale, keep him away from everything cruel.)

Instead, he chats, settling down beside the other boy. “So. What’s that mission about? Flying to the outskirts of the galaxy.”

Aziraphale shoots him a look that obviously reads as _were-you-not-paying-attention_ and Crowley doesn’t dare say _I-couldn’t-stop-looking-at-you_. “The Jedi… want to wipe out one of the pirate bases.”

It takes Crowley a moment. “Everyone. Wiping out everyone on that planet.”

Aziraphale just nods.

“Not the kids, you can’t kill kids.”

(We’re _still kids for kriff’s sake!_)

Aziraphale nods again, and the Force sparks nervously around him.

“Well, that’s more the kind of thing you’d expect the Sith to do.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cries out finally, a hand slapping over the other’s mouth. “You can’t just,” he looks around nervously, “say things like that!”

Crowley touches Aziraphale’s wrist, muted apology swirling around him. Aziraphale lowers his hand.

“I mean, yes, not that—not that you’re wrong, but the Jedi Order and Republic will step in afterwards and restore peace.”

“How kind,” Crowley remarks.

Aziraphale pulls a wounded kind of face. “You can’t judge the Order, Crowley. The Force wills it so. It’s—”

“Are you going to say ineffable?”

Aziraphale stutters, settling on staring at the waterfall beside them. “Possibly.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Pull your feet out of the water. Let’s meditate.”

“Medi—Crowley?”

He hopes it’s dark enough that Aziraphale can’t see the flush over his cheeks. “Only because you’re fretting so much. You can’t go into battle like that.”

So they sit cross-legged, facing each other, knees brushing, hands clasped together. They quiet their breathing, empty their minds, and the Force flows through them.

(Crowley doesn’t get much meditation in.)

...

Grey Jedi are hunted down.

Death is not unfamiliar to any soldier, even for ones as young as they are. Gabriel and Michael cut off their Padawan braids, and now Aziraphale and Crowley stand as Jedi Knights.

The Grey are not buried with Jedi blessings. It is said that the Force rejects them too. They are not cremated, not allowed to be returned to the universe.

“Did you,” Aziraphale asks in their new chambers, when the lights are off and Crowley is almost asleep, “ever meet him?”

“Yes. Seemed a very bright young man. Didn’t always agree with the Order.”

Aziraphale is quiet for a moment. The Force drips, heavy, saturated, afraid, and Crowley hears him through their bond.

_Don’t you agree with the Order?_

Crowley rolls over in his bed. “What exactly did he say that got everybody so upset?”

“Be kind to each other.” And then, with a small, trembling voice, “Love one another.”

(There is no emotion, there is peace.)

“Oh, yeah. That’ll do it. Jedi Code and no attachments and whatnot.”

It is quiet.

“Angel?” Crowley asks, after a while. “Do you think he was wrong? Do you think he deserved this?”

They meet each other’s gaze from across the room. Aziraphale’s eyes are so blue, blue like their lightsabers, like their Force-bond.

“We shouldn’t ask too many questions.”

...

(There is no passion, there is serenity. There is no death, there is the Force.)

Three days later, while they are meditating, the Grey Jedi smiles at Crowley in the Force.

(There is no peace without a passion to create. There is no passion without peace to guide. There is freedom in life. There is purpose in death.)

...

They are sent to Tatooine to investigate some bounty hunters. Eating is the only thing it seems Aziraphale might set the Code aside for, so of course Crowley tempts him to food before the twin suns set. They have time, he promises.

Their nice robes and Coruscant accent will warrant a higher price, but as lunch winds into dinner and their tab finally comes, Crowley is surprised to find that the numbers are not as outrageous as he calculated.

Aziraphale is looking stubbornly down at their dessert.

“Gratuitous use of the Force, angel, what would Gabriel say?” But he smiles so Aziraphale knows he means no harm and leaves a generous number of coins on the table when they finally get up.

And then.

They feel it.

An explosion of the Force. Stronger than Michael, stronger than even Metatron.

Aziraphale takes off running, one hand already on his lightsaber. Crowley propels them out of the restaurant with a small burst of the Force, nudges people to the side of the road as they run and run and the Force is so _dark_—a Sith? Here?—and turn the corner into the town center and—

It’s a child. Two children, one blonde, the other dark-haired.

The blonde boy is crying as his companion shields him. A Toydarian is choking. The dark-haired boy narrows his eyes and the Force screams around them.

Aziraphale shoots Crowley a nervous glance before pocketing his lightsaber. He approaches them, palms open, placating, and Crowley is terrified that he’ll be torn apart.

They are slaves, the Jedi recognize. No more than ten years old. Spilling with the Force.

“You don’t want to hurt him,” Aziraphale says softly, and everything stills for a moment.

“I do!”

“No. You don’t. Let him go.”

The boy falters. The Force will always love Aziraphale. The Toydarian plummets to the ground, wings beating weakly as he struggles for breath.

“It’s alright now. He won’t hurt you anymore,” Aziraphale promises, walking toward the two boys, crouching to their eye-level when he gets there . “You’ve done well.”

Crowley casts the bug-like alien half a glance before realizing it’s too late. “Come on, angel. We have to go. There will be people after them.” He makes a move to pick up the standing boy before the Force bites at him. “That’s not very Jedi-like of you.”

The boy with the golden curls gasps. “Jedi? You’re Jedi?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale answers, easing him to his feet. “And if we tread carefully, both of you shall be too. Come now.”

...

The children are brought before the Order, shy and trembling, and deemed Force-sensitive. Both Aziraphale and Crowley are promoted to become their Masters and join the Council.

Gabriel grabs Aziraphale’s shoulder when everyone else has left.

“Master?”

“I have not been your Master for a while now, Aziraphale,” but there’s something soft in those violet eyes as he smiles. “The boy, Warlock, Crowley’s Padawan. Michael and I believe he may be the Chosen One. He must _not_ fall to the Dark Side.”

Aziraphale inhales sharply. “Oh.”

“Crowley is a sharp warrior, but I don’t like the way he thinks. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

The Force crackles with— with— but Aziraphale quickly backs down. “Yes.” His heart twists and he suddenly wants to cry. “I understand. No attachments.”

(Crowley and the children are waiting for him outside. If the other Jedi notices Aziraphale pressing closer, notices the trepidation in their bond, he doesn’t comment.)

...

When Warlock and Adam have been sent to meditation with Uriel, Aziraphale searches for Crowley. Their bond tells him that the other isn’t in their room, isn’t anywhere in the Temple actually.

So he wanders into the city, feeling… Feeling a lot. A lot of things he doesn’t think a good Jedi Knight should be feeling.

(There is no chaos, there is harmony.)

When they sparred earlier to demonstrate for their Padawans, Crowley’s attacks were harsher, more violent than Aziraphale can remember, even though they’ve been training together their whole lives. The whole Order knows of them, of their companionship and rivalry, of their compatibility—two sides of the same blade. There’s no Force-bond quite as strong as theirs, Aziraphale thinks.

They make a terribly good team together.

Crowley fights on instinct and Aziraphale knows how to build off of him. He knows that’s not the Jedi way. The Jedi have set forms.

Sith fight on instinct, with emotion.

(Is emotion all that wrong?)

Aziraphale clutches at his chest. It’s not that the Jedi condemn all emotion; they simply are not allowed to favor any one person over another. Attachments are dangerous in battle. Everything is for the Order, for the Republic. One person should not stand in the way of that.

He loses his appetite. The Padawans are waiting when he walks back up the stairs to the Temple.

“Master?” Adam asks.

Aziraphale hushes the Force, tames it, builds a home for the two children at his side. They are, traditionally, still Younglings. They shouldn’t know the discipline of Padawans, the strife of Jedi. “It’s alright. It’s getting rather late.” He rests a hand in each boy’s hair and their echoing laughter makes him feel lighter.

...

“Angel?”

There’s a weight on his bed. It is far past midnight, but Aziraphale hasn’t gotten much sleep. He never sleeps well.

He rolls to face the wall, back to Crowley, not knowing why he simply cannot meet his friend’s eyes.

_Where do you go these days?_

Crowley is quiet for a moment, soft, softer than he usually is, such a contrast to the angles and lines Aziraphale knows so well.

_The city. Drinking with friends._

The Force trembles—with anticipation, with nervousness, with endearment—and everything all at once is so very close, so very raw that Aziraphale thinks he might lose himself until he feels Crowley’s gentleness at his wrist.

Aziraphale doesn’t get to ask _what friends, what about Warlock, what about the Chosen One, haven’t you heard what Michael has been saying, there might be Sith in our ranks, corruption in the Republic_ because Crowley kisses his hand, just a breath over his knuckles, and— and… and.

And nothing.

“Thank you for watching over Warlock for me. Things will be back to normal tomorrow.” It’s his form of an apology as Crowley releases him and stands up to make his way over to his own bed.

Their bond almost splinters in the intimacy of it all.

Aziraphale swallows, tears in his eyes. “See that things are.”

He feels Crowley look at him again, just once, just once but so intensely, so desperately.

Aziraphale doesn’t sleep that night.

...

Aziraphale is pulling Adam to his feet, guiding the fallen practice-saber back into his hands, encouragement written all over his face, when Crowley saunters in, Warlock tucked close to his side.

“Warlock!” His Padawan forgets about training, racing over.

“Focus!” Aziraphale calls after him, but he smiles as Adam nearly tackles his friend.

Crowley makes his way around Aziraphale, circling him, a grin tugging at his mouth. Playfulness pushes against their bond and Aziraphale will have none of it.

“What do you want, interrupting my session here?”

“Why ever would you insinuate that I might possibly want something?”

“You are up to no good.”

Crowley snakes a hand over his companion’s shoulder. “Obviously. I take it you are up to good. Lots of good deeds.”

Aziraphale shrugs off Crowley’s arm, mindful that their Padawans are watching. “I am going to Naboo next week. Apparently, I have to meet with the Gungans.”

“Oh those slimy fools, Gungans—”

“Gungans aren’t slimy—”

“You know, I have to go to Naboo, too. For the new Queen Anathema’s official coronation. That’s why I thought,” Crowley tilts his head, “well, bit a waste, both of us going to Naboo.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale warns, knowing Adam is definitely listening now.

“The Council doesn’t actually care how things get done. They just want to know that they can cross it off their list.”

“But if they find out, they won’t just be angry.”

Crowley sends reassurance against Aziraphale’s pulsating worry through their bond. “Nobody has to know.”

Aziraphale sighs. “Adam, come here, dear boy, you’ve been eavesdropping this whole time, haven’t you?”

The two Padawans scurry over, eyes bright, faces round, and Aziraphale kneels to their level.

“Be good, the both of you. I shall be back within a week. Adam, I expect to see improvement in your meditation.”

“But Master,” Adam quite nearly pouts, “you promised you would start teaching me the Soresu form.”

Aziraphale looks up at Crowley, and there must be something in his gaze that makes the other man cave immediately. “Yes, yes, alright. But you know I am more partial to Shien and Juyo.”

Aziraphale smiles, ruffles the boys’ hair, and stands up to collect his belongings from his room.

_May the Force be with you, angel_, Crowley calls.

_May the Force be with you, Crowley._

...

Aziraphale may take back his protest. Gungans aren’t predominantly slimy per se, even if they were amphibians, but their prisons are quite damp and frankly revolting.

He’s similarly not exactly worried per se, but he can hear the protest escalating into violence outside.

He sighs, glancing down at the cuffs around his wrists, and hopes Gabriel won’t reprimand him again for using the Force for this.

“Angel.”

Aziraphale can’t help the way his face lights up. “Crowley!” He turns, only to find his friend looking lazily at him from outside the cell. What is he _wearing_? Where are his Jedi robes? “Oh Force help me.”

“What the kriff are you doing locked up in here?” Crowley drawls, almost irritated, because Aziraphale is many things—a Jedi, a hedonist, his best friend—but far from an idiot. “I thought you would be on the ship back home a day ago.”

“Well, I was.” Aziraphale looks away, embarrassed under scrutiny. “I got peckish.”

“_Peckish_?”

“Well, if you must know, it was their mollusks. The ones on Coruscant are nowhere near as good as the ones prepared here.”

“So you wandered into the swamps of Naboo, knowing there was some Gungan protest against Queen Anathema, because you wanted something to nibble?” Crowley’s eyes sweep him from head to toe. “Dressed like that?”

Like someone of importance, a Jedi, one of Anathema’s supporters.

“I have standards!”

Crowley rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. He unlocks the door with a key he must have snatched off one of the guards. “Use the Force and let’s go home.”

“Gabriel said—”

“Oh, fuck Gabriel—” Crowley sneers.

“—that I used it too frivolously. That I always have.”

“Well you’re lucky I was in the area,” meaning that Crowley likely flew here with his own ship because Aziraphale wasn’t back at the Temple like they agreed upon a week prior. He snaps his fingers; the cuffs release Aziraphale’s wrists.

“Well, I suppose I should say thank you. For the rescue.”

Crowley fixes him with a look that Aziraphale can’t quite name—doesn’t want to name because it’s too dangerous, it’s not allowed, it’s against the Code—and almost smiles.

(He doesn’t say _wherever you are, I’ll come to you_, doesn’t say _anything for you, angel_, doesn’t say _I am one with you and you are one with me_ like the old mantras of the Guardians.)

They make their way out of the prison, fighting when necessary, knowing without words or thought what the other will do.

It’s not Crowley’s sleek, black Eta-2 interceptor that greets them when the protest finally dies down and they make their way out of the swamp. It’s one of the Jedi ships, larger, grey, that Crowley has obviously _stolen_ to come get him.

“The two rascals wanted to come,” Crowley says as the door lowers open.

“Master!” Adam cries, flinging himself onto Aziraphale. “We were so worried, you said a week, it’s been more than a week!”

Crowley pinches Warlock’s cheek as he passes by to ready the ship for takeoff.

(No attachments.)

But the boys are only ten. Why would the Force burden them with something as heavy as the mantle of the Chosen One?

“Master?”

Aziraphale picks up his Padawan, letting the boy wrap his small arms around his neck, and offers his other hand to Warlock. “Come on. Back to Coruscant we go.”

(They actually stop for dinner along the way, in a pub closer to the palace, and even Crowley has to admit that Gungan food is pretty decent.

Adam presses close to Aziraphale throughout the whole affair. There’s a bruise on his forearm.

The Jedi is about to encourage his Padawan to show him everything Crowley has taught him since last week, but Adam leans closer to his ear and whispers, “Please don’t leave me again, Master.”

Aziraphale tries to catch Crowley’s gaze, to question what exactly happened, where did that bruise come from, a bruise that looks like someone grabbed the boy’s arm, but Crowley is busy feeding Warlock and laughing.

“I won’t,” Aziraphale says, and the Force loosens around him. He didn’t even notice.)

...

_Destroy our Force-bond._

That’s what Crowley wrote, that’s what Crowley handed him, that’s what Crowley asks of him, as if it’s so easy, as if doing so wouldn’t destroy them both with all the emotion and essence they’ve poured into it over all these years. What did he mean if it all goes pear-shaped, if it all goes wrong, what could go wrong, they are training the Chosen One, yes there is the Sith, the Dark Side, but they should be lightyears away, they were supposed to be extinct anyway, they have time, how _dare_ Crowley—

Aziraphale hates arguing with him.

(There is no emotion, there is peace. There is no ignorance, there is knowledge. There is no passion, there is serenity. There is no chaos, there is harmony. There is no death, there is the Force.

There is no emotion, there is peace. There is no emotion, there is peace.

There is peace.

There is the Force.)

Abruptly, he remembers the pilgrimage to Jed-ha, to the Temple of Kyber. The Guardians did not mind relationships; they almost encouraged it, believed friendships and relationships would only strengthen an individual’s connection to the Force.

(Why were they Jedi? Of all the things to be, why Jedi?)

“Master?” Adam rests a hand on Aziraphale’s knee. “I can’t meditate either.”

(Oh, what kind of example is he setting for his Padawan? What kind of Jedi Knight is he?)

“Sorry, dear boy. Come now, slow your breaths—”

“Did you and Master Crowley fight?”

Aziraphale looks into those young eyes, blue like his own, but lighter, more innocent, without worry of Force-bonds and the Dark Side and the Order. Adam picked up Soresu quite naturally in the week Aziraphale was away. He was a good student. Crowley was a good teacher.

“You don’t have to concern yourself with your Master’s troubles, Adam.”

“But I care about you. And Warlock, and Master Crowley. You’re—” The boy sits back further, hands resting on the ground behind him, almost shyly. “You’re my family. We didn’t have family on Tatooine. I just had Warlock.”

Aziraphale is about to scold him—_No attachments, Adam, you know better_—but how could he? “Thank you,” he says instead. “Perhaps we should retire earlier this evening. Grab something to eat. Have you met any of the other Younglings?”

“Yes! I—Can I bring them to meet you next time?”

“Of course, dear boy.”

Adam smiles and runs off.

...

Crowley comes in late again. Aziraphale is still awake.

“Quiet, angel.” He doesn’t apologize, but neither does Aziraphale. “I’m back now.”

Aziraphale can’t trust himself to fall asleep until Crowley’s breaths have slowed and steadied.

...

“That was very kind of you,” Aziraphale says, because he doesn’t know what else to say, because Crowley just killed the Morningstar of the Order, just killed someone they all thought was a loyal Jedi, just killed someone they trained with and knew and trusted and respected.

They can’t see Lucifer beneath all the rubble.

Lucifer, a hero of the Jedi Order, Jedi-turned-Sith. Their friend, once.

“Shut up,” Crowley responds, softly, because they are running out of time. The Council was right. There are Sith in their ranks too.

(Insurance, Crowley had said, handing Aziraphale the paper.)

Michael will be heartbroken. Gabriel, furious, no doubt.

Aziraphale reaches for his lightsaber, nervous, but it’s not at his waist. “Oh.” He forgot. Lucifer disarmed him the moment he walked in. “I’ll… I’ll have to get a new lightsaber.”

He doesn’t think the Force will guide him to a crystal anymore. Not when the Force allowed this to happen. Not when the Force allowed any of this to happen. The Force wills it so? Allowed the Dark Side to tempt Lucifer? Allowed the Sith to grow in power? To put Adam and Warlock at the forefront of the coming war? To put children there?

“No. We might not be so lucky as to match anymore if that were the case.”

Aziraphale looks up to find his lightsaber in Crowley’s hand.

_Oh, Crowley…_

He grabs it, his fingers brushing over his friend’s, his best friend’s, his companion’s, his— his—

(He was so afraid. He couldn’t move against Lucifer, even when merciless golden eyes glared him down, because he knew Lucifer, they went on missions together before, he was one of the best Jedi Aziraphale ever knew.)

Crowley lets go. “Lift home, angel?”

Their Force-bond cries, weeps, wails. Aziraphale returns the weapon to his waist. They are out of time.

Crowley looks at him, meets his eyes. He knows, too. They are out of time.

(They never could have had this.)

...

When Crowley finally makes it back to his ship, Aziraphale is there. He takes a step back, wanting to hide; he doesn’t want this conversation, not ever, not now, not when there are wounds littered up and down his arms and legs and Aziraphale will worry.

“What are you doing here?”

Aziraphale doesn’t smile, as if he knows, as if he’s known all along what Crowley has been up to, but that’s impossible. “I work with you. I hear things.” His eyes dart away before focusing on Crowley again. “I hear that you’re going to Mustafar soon. After Warlock and Adam’s ceremony.”

Crowley can’t speak.

(Aziraphale can’t know why he’s going. The real reason why.)

“I wish we didn’t have to fight. I wish for— well, a lot of things that Jedi probably should not think about. Gabriel certainly wouldn’t be too pleased.”

“Is Gabriel ever pleased?”

His friend huffs in lieu of a laugh.

Crowley isn’t sure what to say. No more bravado, no more confidence. No more lies, he wishes, how he wishes too, but what he is doing is for them, for Warlock and Adam.

“Thank you,” he decides on, tugging at the cuffs of his long robes. “For saving Warlock today. When I couldn’t.”

Aziraphale nods, like a guarantee. It is. “Crowley, you know what breaking a Force-bond means. It’s too dangerous. It would destroy both of us.”

“You told me what you think already.”

“And I haven’t changed my mind.” Aziraphale pins him with that blue gaze—startling, bright, afraid, so unfairly courageous—and that hurts more than all the training Crowley has ever gone through. “But I’ll do it. If anything goes wrong, I’ll do it.”

The Force is silent. It does not mourn, does not rejoice; it lets them make this choice.

“After everything you said.”

Aziraphale reaches a hand toward him, but lowers it. Crowley knows how he must look. It’s pure, unadulterated, patient, so fond. The Jedi aren’t allowed to have people who look at them like that. They aren’t allowed to look at people like that.

He doesn’t want to hide anymore. That’s why he’s doing this.

“Can I drop you anywhere?”

“No. Thank you. It’s rather late.” Aziraphale returns his hands to his lap, clutches them together, as if he were praying. “Don’t look so disappointed. Perhaps one day we could take Adam and Warlock to the sand dunes on Jed-ha. Have a picnic. After the war is over.”

“I’ll give you a lift, anywhere you want to go.”

(_Please. Let’s not be Jedi. Let’s not be trapped here._)

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.” Heartbroken, wretchedly, tremendously sorry, Aziraphale turns away, because they are Jedi, this is the reality they are bound to, even if they could be so good together, especially because Aziraphale—

Crowley watches him exit the ship. Meander through the Coruscant night life, away from him, back to the Temple.

...

Warlock’s crystal glows green. Adam’s chooses him, but remains colorless. He and Crowley exchange a look that Aziraphale doesn’t miss, but doesn’t understand either.

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale tells his soon-to-be-Padawan-no-longer.

(At just thirteen, when most recruits become Padawans, Warlock and Adam become Jedi Knights.)

...

It’s early. It’s still dark outside, but their room is bright.

(This is the last day of his world, Crowley thinks, knows, has known.)

For a few hours, there is nothing but each other. Aziraphale helps dress him, not commenting on the fresh wounds that marr his chest, his stomach, and smiles.

“Black looks good on you.”

He is led to the couch, where he settles so Aziraphale can sit beside him to braid his hair.

(Aziraphale must know. He must feel it; the Force must have told him _something_ because he has never been this open with his affections, he has never chosen Crowley over the Order.)

“When will you be back do you think?” Aziraphale’s fingers are so gentle through those red curls, so kind.

Of all the things to be, why Jedi? Neither of them were made for this.

“I don’t know.”

“Alright.” Aziraphale twists the braid up into a bun, slides pins into place to secure it. “Warlock will miss you dearly.”

“Do you really believe the Sith are that bad?”

“Through victory, my chains are broken. The Force shall free me.” Aziraphale turns him, a hand soft on his cheek. “A Sith deals in absolutes. I think,” his voice catches, and Crowley wants to tell him everything, wants to give up everything, wants to run away with him because Aziraphale does not deserve any of the pain the Force wills upon him. “I think,” Aziraphale tries again, pressing their foreheads together, so their noses brush, so Crowley can count all those fair lashes, “that I would choose something the Guardians believed in. Or the Grey. If I could choose.”

“Flowing through all, there is balance. The Force is all things, and I am the Force.”

“I am one with the Force and the Force is with me.” Aziraphale kisses his forehead. “I am one with you and you are one with me. Be safe, Crowley.”

_Come home._

“I will, angel.”

(It is the worst lie Crowley has ever had to tell.)

...

(“The Sith must be stopped!” Michael screams, so gutted that Aziraphale knows she must have her own motives.

“Ba’al would kill you,” Gabriel says. “You are no match for them. Destroy the traitor on Mustafar first.”)

He can’t. As the ship touches down on the volcanic planet, Aziraphale knows he is not going home. Adam and Warlock press close to his sides, afraid, so innocent.

“You must stay here. Do you understand?”

“Master—” Warlock tries.

“You will stay here.”

“He’s our family too,” Adam retorts, the Force bursting around him.

(Aziraphale is going to lose everyone. Everything.)

They exit the ship, passing by Crowley’s, when a familiar droid rolls up to Aziraphale.

“A2-C2, if I…”

The droid beeps at him. Aziraphale rests a hand on the smooth metal and smiles. He doesn’t think he will ever smile again.

(“He killed everyone. The Separatist Leaders. There’s nothing on that planet now, do you understand? The Republic will be thrown into chaos; the war is inevitable.”

Aziraphale has never remembered Michael to be quite this cold.)

“Master, we will all go home,” Warlock says, pleas.

They enter the mining complex.

_Crowley?_

Black robes, red hair, hair that Aziraphale lovingly brushed and braided just that morning. He turns.

“Master!” Warlock runs into Crowley’s arms.

“What are you doing here?” he demands, a hand in the boy’s hair, eyes catching Aziraphale’s.

“We were so worried about you,” Adam explains softly. He does not leave Aziraphale’s side. “The Council told us terrible things.”

“Like what?” Crowley hisses.

Warlock looks up at his former master. “That you turned to the Dark Side. That you killed people, good people!”

_Crowley. Please. You’re a good person. This can’t be true._

(It’s true. This has been happening all along, but Aziraphale never wanted to believe it.)

“I’m doing this for you. To protect you.” Crowley tries to run his hand through Warlock’s hair, but the boy backs away.

“No,” Adam corrects. “To use me. Because I’m the Chosen One.”

And just like that. The Force deserts Aziraphale. It casts him out.

(He has lost everything.)

“When?” he has to know, but he already recalls the week he went to Naboo, he remembers Crowley out at night with “friends”.

“My father was Lucifer,” Adam says, pushing Warlock behind him, protecting because it’s the only thing he knows how to do. “A Sith Lord. Master, he tried to kill you to get to me.”

“The Chosen One can destroy the world and create it anew. Aziraphale, you know the Order is flawed!”

“Crowley—”

“We don’t want to go with you. Come home.” Adam is burning with the Force, but he is young, and now Crowley has both the powers of a Jedi and a Sith.

It’s as if Aziraphale is watching everything play out before him in slow-motion. The moment Crowley, _Crowley, dearest_, throws Adam and Warlock backwards, screaming, is the moment Aziraphale knows he’s failed. This is all his fault. Crowley has always been tempted by the Dark Side because Aziraphale refused to stray from the Jedi. He has driven Crowley into this corner, has watched all this just happen under his nose because he was so desperately and foolishly hopeful that everything would just work out. As if chaining Crowley and all of his emotion to the Jedi Order would resolve itself peacefully.

(This is all his fault.)

“The Jedi turned against me. Our Padawans have turned against me. Don’t you turn against me.”

Aziraphale wants to check on them, wants to flee, wants, wants, wants— “They love you. Are you so blind in your quest for power to see that?”

“Aziraphale. _Angel_—”

_Crowley, you’re breaking my heart!_

“It’s a big universe. Even if this all ends up destroyed by the Jedi and Sith, we can go off together.”

“Go off together?” Aziraphale has never chosen Crowley over the Order. He can’t. Even if he wanted to—wants to—he cannot forgive what Crowley has done to Adam and Warlock. “Listen to yourself.”

“How long have we been friends? Our whole lives!”

“Friends—” (Best, closest friend, his other half.) “We’re not friends. We are a Jedi. And a Sith. We’re on opposite sides!”

Crowley ignites his lightsaber. (Blue, Aziraphale’s twin, Aziraphale’s partner.) “We’re on our side!”

“There is no our side, Crowley!” Aziraphale is close to tears. He reaches for his weapon. “There never was.”

They clash. Lava and fire sprays up all around them as they carry the fight deeper through the facilities. Crowley’s swings are brutal, lethal, without pattern or form, too full of emotion, and Aziraphale just keeps parrying, keeps giving ground, keeps backing away. This is everything they’ve poured into their Force-bond, every mission they’ve gone on together, every chat and meal and mediation and training session; they are two sides of the same blade. There is no Crowley without Aziraphale, no Aziraphale without Crowley.

(This is all his fault.)

Someone’s blade destroys the control panel. Without shielding, the complex begins to sink into the lava.

Aziraphale leaps from the burning river to an embankment, staring down at Crowley from the higher ground.

(How could he ever raise his weapon like this against _Crowley_?)

But he’s forced to.

(He needs to protect Adam and Warlock— The Jedi Order demands it of him— He doesn’t want to die yet— Aziraphale is heartbroken.)

His saber slices across Crowley’s back, and Aziraphale staggers backward as if he feels it too.

The lava rises closer and closer to the fallen Sith.

(He might as well be dead. He should’ve gone after Ba’al, should’ve taken on all of the Sith. Anyone but Crowley.)

“I hate you!” Crowley screams, no longer Jedi, no longer human, so so betrayed and abandoned by everyone and everything he loved and believed in and Aziraphale wants to turn back time, wants to give Crowley everything he has ever desired, wants to hold him in his arms and apologize because he’s so sorry that he didn’t know what else to do, he’s so sorry that he made Crowley _this_.

His eyes melt gold, the eyes of a Sith Lord consumed by the Dark Side, the eyes of a murderer.

(This is all his fault. A part of him dies here with Crowley.)

“I loved you,” Aziraphale says, finally, softly, helpless to respond only with love even in the face of all of Crowley’s hatred.

Crowley screams as the lava begins to devour him. Aziraphale turns and leaves. He can’t kill Crowley.

He looks down at the lightsaber in his hands and bright crimson glares back at him. Punishment, this is his punishment, to exist.

To breathe knowing he destroyed the person who loved him most.


	2. Chapter 2

(Aziraphale would know. He would’ve felt himself torn apart, would’ve felt the universe collapse in on itself—but didn’t it? Didn’t it?

But it is silent. He never touched their Force-bond, but it is silent. After decades of Crowley’s thoughts and feelings circling, orbiting, trailing after him, longing for him, it is silent.

_ Destroy our Force-bond _ feels like a lifetime ago.

Aziraphale doesn’t touch it. He can’t.

Instead, he prays. The Force doesn’t respond anymore.)

It is the largest mind-wipe in what must be the history of the Jedi Order. Knights are stationed to every planet possible and for months, they rewrite history to hide their failures.

Crowley, the Black Knight of the Jedi Order, never existed. There is only Crowley the Temptress and Serpent of the Sith.

(Gadreel, some call him, but Aziraphale cannot.)

Gabriel’s former Padawan, just before Aziraphale, leads the Sith now that Lucifer—Samael—has died.

(Beelzebub, Aziraphale recalls faintly, though they now go by Ba’al.)

So many second names. So many Jedi-turned-Sith. So many mistakes.

(This is all his fault.)

“You are removed from the Council!” Gabriel shouts, violet eyes heavy over Aziraphale’s red lightsaber.

_ How can you judge me _ , Aziraphale wants to ask,  _ when the Force allowed this to happen? _

“You should be executed,” Michael adds, still angry over Lucifer’s death, but Aziraphale has lost everything, he cannot feel Crowley at all,  _ he does not care _ .

“You will not touch him,” Adam snarls.

“Oh, how dare you, you little brat—” (Gabriel is a master of Vaapad, the most aggressive form.)

The Force throws Gabriel against the wall; he doesn’t move.

“The Chosen One should not—” Michael tries to intervene, but falls silent when Adam looks at her.

“The Order is wrong. I am the Chosen One and I renounce all of you!”

“Adam,” Aziraphale murmurs, because he is tired, he is so tired, the Order is all he has ever known. “That’s enough. You’ve done enough. Thank you.”

(Adam saved him from a memory-wipe too.)

Aziraphale is a disgrace of a Jedi. No more Padawans for him ever again. No more big missions for him to fail at. The Council does not trust him—a faithless Jedi with a red lightsaber who was close to a powerful Sith Lord?—but cannot make any moves against him.

He is so tired.

Gabriel hates him, Michael wishes he were dead, Metatron gives up on him. Even Uriel and Sandalphon refuse to speak to him.

This is all his fault.

...

“Aziraphale?” Warlock latches on to his sleeve in the dark, sounding like the child he is. “Will you sing to me?”

Aziraphale smooths dark hair out of the boy’s face. “Did he sing to you?”

“When I was younger. When we first got here.”

It all seems a lifetime ago. Aziraphale does not remember much of his childhood; he just remembers the Jedi Temple. He remembers Crowley.

“I’m afraid I don’t know any songs.”

“Can we talk then? About him?”

_ No. _ “Of course,” even though it’s a blade through his heart, that saber slicing into his back. This is all his fault. He pulls the blanket tighter around Warlock’s shoulders.

“I still love him.” 

( _ “I hate you!” Crowley screamed. _ )

“I do too,” Aziraphale whispers.

“I forgive him. For hurting me and Adam. The Jedi should not seek vengeance. Are we still Jedi, Aziraphale?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “You can be. You and Adam can be great Jedi. I don’t belong with you anymore.”

“You’re our family! Please don’t leave us too.”

“Dear boy.” Aziraphale sighs. “I would never leave you behind.”

(His room is too large for one person. He has never slept well without his other half.

_ Crowley? _ he calls, just once, just this once, just this one second of weakness and desperation and longing.

It is silent. He cannot feel anything. He wishes he could hate Crowley too, wouldn’t that be easier? He wishes, he wishes, as he has always wished, but now he has no one to share those wishes with.)

...

For four years, they stay with the Jedi Order. More Jedi turn Sith, more Sith are hunted down. There is talk of a Death Star, a galactic weapon powerful enough to reduce entire planets to atoms.

Adam is paraded around—cold, unfazeable, desirable—a despairing symbol of hope.

The Republic is falling. There’s nothing they can do but prolong the inevitable. Everything will fall into the Chosen One’s hands.

It doesn’t matter if the Chosen One is just seventeen, still a boy, a boy with a good heart and the weight of the universe on his shoulders.

(Aziraphale ran into Queen Anathema once, Queen and Senator, and there’s something in the way she looks at him that makes him realize she knows.

“Do you believe in witches?” she asked, a gentle hand on his weary face.

“I find it difficult to believe.”

“Yes. To believe is to have hope.” She studied him, lowering her hand. “I am sorry for your loss, Master Aziraphale. Perhaps one day, we could meet on better terms.”

Later that day, Aziraphale watched her stand before a corrupt Republic and mourn, “So this is how liberty dies. With thunderous applause.”)

In between it all, Aziraphale meets Adam’s friends—Pepper, Wensleydale, Brian—and continues existing in the backdrop. He brings Warlock to try new foods every once in a while, when he thinks he has the energy to go out. Sometimes, even though Adam is exhausted, the boy flies Aziraphale around at night. He’s a good pilot.

( _ He _ was a good pilot.

_ “I hate you!” he sobbed. _ )

But mostly, Aziraphale reads. The other Jedi don’t seem to mind all that much when he has his head buried in the old scrolls and texts of the archives. He reads about the Guardians of the Whills, about the Dark Side, about kyber crystals, about the Force. He finds, hidden away, an alternate version of the Jedi Code.

When he meditates, a vast abyss threatens to swallow him, like a starless night. He thinks, and he worries, and he mourns. For four years, Aziraphale feels utterly alone.

...

Adam’s isolation from normalcy breeds anger. His lightsaber is still colorless, foggy, and Aziraphale has come to understand that it will change when Adam makes his choice.

But the Force is his to mold, his to tame, his to control.

When Warlock strikes him down in training, Adam lashes out, like a reflection of Tatooine all those years ago, placing Warlock in a Force choke.

“Adam!” Warlock wheezes, feet leaving the floor, hands clawing at his throat, lightsaber useless and out of reach.

“It’s not  _ fair _ !” Adam screams, hand closing in a fist—

“ _ Crowley _ ,” Aziraphale realizes, and the Chosen One falls to the floor, startled. Warlock gasps for breath, tears in his eyes.

“What.” Adam stares at his hands. “What was I doing?”

“I’d like to know too, you kriffing idiot!” Warlock curses, but he staggers over to help his friend to his feet. “What was  _ that _ ?”

Adam flinches away from the outstretched hand, looking up at Aziraphale.

“You have been training with a Sith.”

“What? No!”

“Jedi do not use Force chokes. We never teach it. It is a slow and cruel death.”

“Master Aziraphale, please—” Warlock tries to soothe, a hand on his shoulder, but Aziraphale will have none of it.

“I will not lose you to the Dark Side too, Adam.”

Adam’s eyes flash as he gets up. “I am not  _ lost _ !” he snaps. “You are! You’ve been so disillusioned with the stupid fucking Order ever since Mustafar! They won’t bring him back! I can’t either! I can’t— I don’t know how— I don’t—”

“Oh, my dear boys,” because this is all Aziraphale can offer now without the Force and without hope. He pulls them into his arms and wishes he could shield them from all the cruelty of the universe that lies in wait. How he longs to fly them away from it all. “You are both just children,” he murmurs. “There shouldn’t be a war.”

Adam and Warlock press closer to him; they’re the orphaned slaves rescued from Tatooine again. Forced into apprenticeship too soon. Forced to lose and lose and lose while the only thought in their innocent minds was and is to give.

“My dear Padawan,” he begs of Adam. “Tell me. You have been training with Crowley.”

Adam shakes his head, trembling, tears rolling down his rosy cheeks, but Warlock takes his hand. “Yes.”

“Did he apologize for hurting you?”

“Yes. For everything. But he won’t come home.”

Aziraphale tilts his head, nose stinging like he wants to cry too, finding it hard to swallow, to speak, to breathe. “I don’t think this was ever really his home. How is he?”

Adam shakes his head again, and Warlock tucks his friend’s face to his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Master Aziraphale.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, dear boy. Please get some rest. See the healers.”

Warlock hugs Aziraphale again before he leads Adam away, picking up his lightsaber on the way, out of the training rooms.

“Crowley.” He’s so desperate to believe. “Crowley,” he repeats to himself, like a prayer, like a mantra. “I am one with you and you are one with me.”

( _ “I hate you!” _ )

...

“He doesn’t want to see you,” Adam says, when their sabers clash.

Aziraphale dodges as Adam stumbles forward, catching the boy’s free leg and bringing him down. “He does.”

Adam sighs. “He can’t.”

...

Aziraphale yields, Adam’s saber at his throat. “Ask him again.”

“I’ve already asked!”

“Please.”

Adam helps him up. “He wants to protect you. Us. Limiting contact to only me helps with his goal.”

...

“I want to see him.”

...

“I want to see him.”

...

“I want to see him.”

...

( _ This was all my fault. Do you forgive me? Crowley, dearest, could you ever? _

_ “I hate you!” _ )

...

When he opens the door, Adam and Warlock are meditating. It’s such a cruel echo of himself and Crowley—Warlock in darker robes, Adam in lighter ones, and the way they trust each other completely—that Aziraphale wants to run.

But Adam opens his eyes. “You’re so kriffing stubborn. He will be at the Gala next month. He said you know where to find him.”

(Oh, Aziraphale wants to believe.)

...

Crowley is here. 

He promised, yes, but he is also a Sith and the Sith lie, yet he is here because their Force-bond crackles to life and sings like it has never sung before, crying to the universe, celebrating, exultant.

Adam and Warlock each take one of Aziraphale’s hands, their young faces kind and brave.

“Good luck, Master,” Adam murmurs, before he and Warlock disappear into the crowd. 

It is easy for Aziraphale to slip away, easy for someone like him, cast-down, nearly-forgotten, a disappointment and disgrace to the Order. Galas like these are never really for the Jedi anyway. They are always about the Chosen One.

By the time Metatron begins a speech, Aziraphale has disappeared from the crowds back into the hallway. The Force— _ something _ —obeys even without a conscious effort; guards forget he passed by, security glitches until he is out of sight.

He finds the stairs to the roof.

There is a familiar droid waiting for him at the bottom, whirring softly, red, gold, and blue.

“A2-C2,” he greets, feeling like he can’t breathe, feeling too much and he has always felt too much and this is why he is not fit to be a Jedi Knight.

The droid rolls over to him, bumping his legs fondly, beeping with affection.

“I’m scared,” Aziraphale admits, and the droid beeps louder, more frantically, insistently, until he finally works up the courage to climb up the stairs.

The bond is so loud in his ears.

He opens the door to the roof. Closes it behind him. 

For once, he wishes Coruscant weren’t the bustling planet it is, weren’t the city lights and skyscrapers and light pollution. He wishes he could see the stars this late at night, could see the other planets.

The wind gentles.

“You don’t know me,” the Sith whispers, stretching out a hand. “I was never here tonight.”

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand, not knowing what to say, having too much to say,  _ you’ve cut your hair _ ,  _ where did that scar by your ear come from _ ,  _ why didn’t you say anything _ ,  _ have the wounds on your back healed, I thought you died _ ,  _ I thought I killed you _ ,  _ I couldn’t feel you for  _ so long _ ! _

He reaches up.

“No.” Crowley stops the hand reaching for the dark glasses.

“You vain thing,” Aziraphale admonishes, without any heat at all. “Let me see your eyes.”

And Crowley lets him. Crowley has always loved indulging him. The Sith tucks the glasses away into his robes, his black robes, his dark robes.

Aziraphale rests his free hand on Crowley’s shoulder.

These are the eyes of a Sith lord. Of a murderer. Golden, cruel, bright, beautiful.

Crowley’s other hand finds its way to Aziraphale’s waist.

He wants to ask  _ how-can-you-stand-me _ , Aziraphale knows, he hears the Force mumbling, but he doesn’t want to think about everything that’s happened.

“I didn’t take you for dancing.”

The music is faint from downstairs, but the Force is embracing them, giving them time, giving them this moment, so everything is alright.

“It’s a formality,” Crowley responds, almost smiling, almost. “Didn’t we all have to learn as Padawans?”

“We weren’t very good at dancing back then.”

“You were the one stepping all over my feet!”

_ Oh, I have missed you. _

Aziraphale raises the hand from Crowley’s shoulder up to his face, tracing the scar by his ear, his cheekbones, beside his eyes. “Crowley, dearest, you’re crying.” He thumbs away those tears, breath catching because even now, despite everything, Crowley looks like the stars he loves so much, he looks like the freedom and space he has always coveted, he looks like a promise.

“Angel,” and Crowley’s sobbing now, like he’s not a Sith or Jedi, like he’s a child, like he’s a human, like he trusts Aziraphale even after all this time. “I’m sorry. I apologize, whatever I said, I didn’t mean it.”

The  _ I hate you! _ that has haunted Aziraphale for so long, for so many years now, in nightmares and reality, suddenly falls quiet.

“We can run away together,” Crowley says, begs, and he has never once begged for anything in his prideful life, and this is the same scene on Mustafar all over again only they are wielding their hearts instead of their blades and Aziraphale doesn’t know which is worse. “Alpha Centauri, lots of spare planets, nobody would even notice us.”

“Crowley, you’re being ridiculous,” Aziraphale murmurs, and they’re not dancing anymore, they’re still terrible at it, Crowley is shaking. “If I can reach the right people, I can sort this out.”

“There are no right people!” the Sith snarls. “There’s just the Force, moving in mysterious ways, and abandoning us!”

_ My lightsaber bled _ , Aziraphale doesn’t say, knowing Crowley can picture it, can feel the blue seeping away into crimson, into a lack of faith, and Crowley looks as if he might shatter.

“Someone can fix this, the Order can fix this—”

“I can’t be fixed.”

Aziraphale feels a lifetime’s worth of love burst through, feels the Force tear through their hair, their eyes, their skin, their white and black cloaks billowing.

“I forgive you.”

Crowley surges forward, furious, bitter, lonely, and Aziraphale closes his eyes. 

Crowley doesn’t kiss him. 

He bumps their foreheads together, sharing the same breath, the same heartbeat, the same dizzy longing for the Force and acceptance, and this is  _ lift home, angel _ , this is  _ you go too fast for me, Crowley _ , this is  _ I hate you _ , this is  _ I loved you _ , this is  _ I am one with you _ , this is  _ you are one with me _ .

This is ineffable.

The Sith lets go of him. “I won’t keep you.”

Aziraphale smiles, a touch sad, and turns to leave.

By the time he makes it downstairs, the droid is gone. There’s the soft hum from a ship’s engine outside the window.

_ You were supposed to destroy it. _ Crowley tells him,  _ I miss you too, you know. _

Aziraphale walks back into the hallway outside the gala, and Uriel slams him into the wall.

“Hello, Aziraphale,” Michael greets, the Force sharp against his throat. “You’ve been a little bit of a Grey Jedi, haven’t you?”

...

Crowley doesn’t think he’s ever flown this fast before.

_ Aziraphale?  _ he tries desperately, but it is silent, as silent as it was for all those years, as silent as he forced it to be for all those years because he couldn’t bear having Aziraphale so tantalizingly close.

The Jedi Temple is up in flames. The Sith have been planning for a long time and they have finally struck.

Crowley lost everything to the fires on Mustafar, but he had a chance to get it all back, to get Aziraphale back, but he didn’t know, he couldn’t warn Adam or anyone—he can  _ not  _ lose it all in these fires.

He lands the black interceptor on an unfortunate building before he leaps out, sprinting toward his old home.

“Stay there, A2!” he calls because he’ll be damned if he loses his droid too.

He grew up here. He played on these stairs as a Youngling, walked through all these halls desperate for Michael’s approval, read and studied in the archives, raced with Lucifer in the pools and lakes, and trained with, meditated with, grew up with Aziraphale. He grew up at Aziraphale’s side, as Aziraphale’s other side, other half. But he pushed it all away.

He knows the Jedi are wrong. And he never planned to become a Sith.

He just wanted to be free among the stars.

“Aziraphale!” he calls, rubble and debris flying all around him. The smoke is heavy, but he keeps screaming. “Aziraphale! Where the Force are you, you idiot?”

It is the unmistakable smell of charred flesh. Crowley passes fallen Jedi, Padawans, and in another lifetime he would have tried to save them too.

( _ “I forgive you,” _ Aziraphale said softly, as if Crowley was worth that mercy, as if he blamed himself for Crowley’s choices, as if he still— after all this time— despite, in spite of, because of everything, Aziraphale still loved him.)

“I can’t find you!” he roars, cries, begs, because he’s far past being human now, this is far too painful for any human to experience. 

The Force must be laughing at him because he forced Aziraphale into this on Mustafar. Why would it not give him a taste too?

“Aziraphale, for Force’s— for kriff’s—” He screams until his throat hurts, until the fire licks at him, until the smoke tries to drag him down, this is exactly like Mustafar. “For  _ fuck’s _ sake, Aziraphale, where are you?”

A collapsing pillar knocks the breath out of him. As he hits the floor, he abruptly thinks of Lucifer, thinks of the greed in those golden eyes, of the lack of love for his own son.

(“Crowley. There’s no going back from this,” Ba’al—Beelzebub—said, red saber hot by his ear. “You will forget what love means to you. Many of us fell for love. There’s no return.”

But Crowley kept quiet, even as they carved the blade into his face, scarring and marking him, because they had no idea. The love from Aziraphale is unforgettable. Is worth sacrificing everything for. 

Because even when Crowley helplessly tore himself apart like the monster he was, Aziraphale still said,  _ “I loved you.” _

Ba’al sliced off his long, red locks and Crowley refused to think about how Aziraphale crowned him with a kiss just that morning.)

“You’ve gone,” he chokes out, shoving the pillar off his chest, wheezing for clean air. It is so silent. He left Aziraphale to this silence for four years! “Somebody killed my best friend!”

He rejects it all. Rejects the Jedi Order, the Dark Side and the Sith, the coming war, the prophecies and lies, he _ detests _ the Force.

“Bastards! All of you!”

He ignites his lightsaber and cuts his way out of the flaming Temple.

The Order is gone. The Republic in pieces. One last battle with the Sith until the end of the world.

A2-C2 beeps at him as he gets back on his ship.

(A.C. Alpha Centauri. To the naked eye, they appear as one binary star. He always wanted to take Aziraphale there.)

His world has already ended. It ended long ago.

...

Adam glances at the ship’s radar, checking for possible enemies in pursuit. “Are you sure?”

“No,” Aziraphale responds, trying to focus. “But I think so. You know where it is?”

“Do I know where the Death Star is? I don’t need to be the Chosen One to see the giant sphere of death!”

“Your Master’s not very smart, is he?” Pepper asks.

“Hey!” Adam shoots her a glare. “Only I can make fun of him.”

“She’s not wrong,” Aziraphale murmurs, a little fondly, just to see the girl smile.

“Please, that’s enough,” Warlock tries to intervene, pushing Aziraphale to the back of the Jedi ship, away from the bickering children.

It doesn’t feel like the end of the world. But soon, Adam will have to make a choice. Between the Jedi—the Them, Warlock, Aziraphale—and the Sith—absolute power, a chance to rule over the universe.

For now, though, for now Aziraphale needs to find Crowley. He doesn’t know if it will work. He’s read about Force ghosts and how rare those are, how it’s much easier to just give into what the Force wills and he hasn’t had the Force for a long time, but now he is beyond the Jedi Order, now he has Adam and Warlock and the Them, and he has Crowley.

(He has always had Crowley.)

He believes in the people who are here with him, when the end of all things is nigh, and that belief is maybe just strong enough to spark hope in him.

“The Force is all things and I am the Force. The Force is all things and I am the Force.” He thinks of Crowley, when hasn’t he stopped thinking of Crowley? “The Force is all things and I am the Force. I am one with you and you are one with me.”

And suddenly, he’s not in a ship hurtling toward possible death. He’s in a pub, sitting before his other half.

Crowley raises his dark glasses for a moment before lowering them again. “Aziraphale? Are you here?”

(He wants to see Crowley’s eyes.)

“Not certain. Never done this before.” 

Crowley is streaked with ash, and Aziraphale wants nothing more than to hold him and cleanse it all away. Remove the Sith, the Jedi in them both and just be.

“Did you go to Alpha Centauri?”

“Nah, I changed my mind. Stuff happened.” Crowley’s voice breaks even as he tries to smile. “I lost my best friend.”

Aziraphale can only stare at him, a lump in his throat. “Crowley, dearest.”

“Look, wherever you are, I’ll come to you,” his closest friend promises. “Where are you?”

“We’re still in space right now, I think. You need to go to the Death Star. That’s where the world will end. I’ll meet you there. But you need to hurry.”

“Angel—”

“Look for the Force and you will always find me.” Aziraphale smiles at him, believing,  _ believing _ , and he’s back in the ship again.

“It worked?” Wensleydale asks.

“Yes.”

“Good,” Adam cuts in, a hand on the saber at his waist. “Because we’re here.”

...

As Ba’al and Gabriel storm toward Adam, Aziraphale brushes Crowley’s wrist, telling him to wait. 

What a cruel twist of the Force, to have former Master and Apprentice leading the opposite Sides at the end of the world. 

(There was affection in Beelzebub’s blue eyes once. Compassion in Gabriel’s violet ones.)

“This is your destiny,” Ba’al snarls. “It is written. Now choose. Just your thought will destroy Coruscant and the Jedi forever.”

“You both want to end the world just to see whose ‘gang’ is best?” Adam asks in disbelief.

Gabriel laughs. “Obviously. The Force wills it so.”

“When all this is over, you’re going to get to rule the world. Don’t you want to rule the world?” Ba’al coaxes.

Adam looks over to his former Master, to his family, feels that Warlock and the Them are safely in wait aboard their ship, and almost smiles. “I’ve got all the world I want.”

“Well you can’t just refuse to be who you are!” Gabriel sneers. “Your birth, your destiny, they’re all as the prophecies foretold! You’re the Chosen One!”

“Only a Sith deals in absolutes, isn’t that right, Gabriel?” Aziraphale says sweetly, taking Adam’s hand. Crowley grabs the other.

“You—”

“ _ Crowley _ !”

And the not-Sith, not-Jedi freezes time.

Crowley squeezes the boy’s hand. “Adam, listen, you’re going to have to make a choice. Ba’al was right. Just a thought will determine the victor.”

“But I’m still just a kid.”

“My dear Padawan, that’s not a bad thing to be.” Aziraphale softens. “The Order was afraid you’d be drawn fall to the Sith. Hoped you’d choose the Light Side. But you’re not Jedi or Sith.” He catches Crowley’s eyes, those golden eyes. “You’re human incarnate.”

“Adam, the Force will listen to you right now, you can change things.”

“And whatever happens, for the Light or the Dark, we’re beside you,” Aziraphale promises, believes.

Time unfreezes, and Adam makes his choice.

“I am not the Chosen One. There is no Chosen One.”

It is the largest mind-wipe in what must be the history of the universe. But not really. Adam does not erase memories. He rewrites the past, changes the present, and writes the future.

“There will never be a Chosen One.”

Gabriel and Beelzebub are returned to Coruscant. The Jedi Temple is restored. The Republic is given another chance.

The Death Star begins to collapse. 

“Adam, find your ship and leave!” Aziraphale orders and the Force listens this time. He couldn’t protect his children once, but now he can.

“Master—” but the Force pushes him out to safety.

Aziraphale throws up his hands, the Force following the motion, desperately trying to support the crumbling structures. “Crowley, you have to go—”

“No!”

“Get your ship. Promise me you’ll catch me.”

“Angel, I can’t—”

“I am one with you and you are one with me. Now go!”

Crowley opens his mouth. Stops. Tries again. “I love you.”

Aziraphale smiles. “I know.” Their Force-bond swells with intensity as he demands the time for Crowley to escape. 

He wants to live, of course he does, he’s wished his entire life to simply live with Crowley, but he doesn’t know if he’ll get the chance. Maybe he’ll try to come back as a Force ghost. Maybe the Force won’t allow that, but it would be worth it to try.

A metal beam falls. More follow.

Aziraphale has to buy him enough time. Perhaps this will be forgiveness. To give Crowley the time to escape is to give him the freedom to explore the universe.

It’s getting harder and harder to breathe.

Only a Sith deals in absolutes. The Jedi seemed to be quite absolute there at the end too. A side that encourages obsession and another that forbids affection.

(There exists an alternate Jedi Code.

Emotion, yet peace.

Ignorance, yet knowledge.

Passion, yet serenity.

Chaos, yet harmony.)

Gabriel was wrong, Aziraphale knows. The Order was wrong. He collapses to one knee, straining with sweat. Love is not an absolute. It is uncertainty, it is leaping off, it is trusting. It is about believing.

_ Angel! _

Aziraphale releases the Force and runs.

(Death, yet the Force.)

Aziraphale falls.

Crowley catches him.

The black Eta-2 interceptor soars away from the broken Death Star.

Aziraphale laughs, out of breath, light with the Force, and their Force-bond sings. “I loved you.” He reaches for Crowley, thumb rubbing away some of the leftover ash on his cheek. “I love you.”

Aziraphale kisses Crowley.

(Said pilot nearly sends their ship spiraling into the vast abyss of the galaxy.)

The Force settles kindly around them both.

“Anywhere you want to go, angel.”

Aziraphale smiles, lacing their fingers together. “First, Naboo.”

...

There are things Adam did not restore. Crowley’s eyes, Aziraphale’s lightsaber. His own kyber crystal remains stubbornly blank too.

Perhaps it’s better that way.

On Naboo, Queen Anathema offers them immunity and a home should they ever need it. Aziraphale doesn’t know if they’ll be hunted down as Grey. He hopes not. Why should the Jedi Order be so absolute? But it is nice to have the security of an army behind them.

(“Did you know how this would end?” Aziraphale asks over dinner. Crowley is watching him eat and he can’t help but allow it.

“It’s hard to say,” the Queen responds, but she winks at Adam and Warlock. “You boys know of the legends on Tatooine.”

“Witches,” the Them chorus, in awe.)

Pepper is offered a position on the Queen’s council. Anathema likes her strong will and readiness to call out any bullshit. When the girl mentions she doesn’t want to waste her years of training either, the Queen laughs.

“My bodyguard then.”

But first, Crowley flies one of the Queen’s ships to Jed-ha. They have a picnic there, on the sand dunes, surrounded by history and temples.

“The war didn’t give the Padawans time to go on the pilgrimage,” Aziraphale explains as they all sit on large blanket on the ground. Crowley is offering him a slice of  _ pak’pah  _ fruit and Aziraphale eats it from his hand to make the other man blush.

“I cannot believe— Oh my—” Adam sputters. “That’s terrible. I should’ve ended the world. That’s disgusting.”

“It’s affection,” Warlock teases, dropping a kiss on Adam’s cheek before running.

“How dare you?” The Force trips the dark-haired boy and Adam gets up just to tackle him, earning a mouthful of sand. “I’m the Chosen One!”

“No, you’re not,” Wensleydale replies matter-of-factly, trying to help Adam up, only to be dragged down by a flailing Warlock.

Brian joins the dogpile of laughing boys, leaving only Pepper to roll her eyes and untangle them with the Force.

“You’re an idiot,” she scolds Adam. “Don’t tell me your fragile masculinity won’t allow for—”

“Pepper, I’m begging you, please don’t kiss me too—”

Pepper punches him and Adam falls into the sand again.

“Okay, hold on, let’s not resort to violence,” Warlock tries.

“No, no, this is fun,” Adam reassures, though there’s sure to be a bruise on his face tomorrow and reaches for his lightsaber.

“How about this,” Crowley calls, pulling Aziraphale to his feet. There’s playfulness in their Force-bond; Aziraphale obliges. “All of you against us.”

Crowley ignites his blue lightsaber. Aziraphale smiles and reaches for his red one.

(After a resounding defeat, though Crowley is insistent that he didn’t want to actually hurt the kids, they return to their picnic site only to discover that their blanket and basket have blown away.

“Can I hear a wahoo?” Crowley drawls, only for Adam to smack his arm.

A perfectly good meal wasted, in Aziraphale’s opinion, but he tucks the children into bed and kisses Adam’s forehead for good measure as Crowley pilots the ship back to Naboo.

“Wahoo,” Aziraphale says very seriously, kissing his cheek as he sits in the co-pilot’s chair.

“Ngk.” Crowley tries very hard not to crash.)

...

They sit on the bed. Alpha Centauri gleams from outside the ship’s window, twins, a perfect pair, evenly matched.

Even now. After everything. In celebration of everything.

Two stars who will never leave each other. Who appear as simply one star to the naked eye.

(They’ll take Adam and Warlock back to Tatooine one day to watch the binary sunset there too.)

For now though, it’s just them. As it started. As it will end.

“Let me see you, dearest,” Aziraphale says softly, reaching for Crowley’s dark glasses. Golden eyes meet his own blue ones, like the stars reflected in the sky, in the waves, in infinity. “Will you grow your hair out?”

Crowley sets down his glasses on the nightstand, taking Aziraphale’s hands in his own, kissing the man’s wrists, knuckles, fingers. “You’ve always been partial to long hair. More to hold?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale chides, feeling his face warm. “You look nice with long hair. You look nice regardless.” He smiles. “You are nice.”

“Stop that.”

“You are nice,” Aziraphale repeats, kissing his forehead. “You are kind.” He kisses Crowley’s eyelids. “You are good.” He kisses the curling scar by Crowley’s ear. “You are capable of so much good,” he whispers because the Force plays games and they are so insignificant but they are here, now, alive and together and breathing. 

They are both so flawed in an apathetic universe, but if Crowley can still look like this—so in love, so brave, so happy—imperfect but unbelievably beautiful, doesn’t it make everything worth it?

“Oh, Crowley,” he breathes, wiping away tears. “Let me see your back. The scars.”

“No.” Crowley argues weakly, kissing him, but he lets Aziraphale push the dark cloak off his shoulders anyway. “It’s not a nice sight.”

“I want to see what I did.”

Crowley frowns at that, but he loosens his tunic and shifts so Aziraphale can look.

It’s a large scar. It has faded over the four years, but Aziraphale can imagine how mangled and painful it must have been. It stretches across Crowley’s spine, from shoulder-blade to lower back.

“Doesn’t it look as if I cut off your wings, Crowley?”

“Wha—”

“I’m sorry.” Aziraphale helps him dress, tucking the old wound out of sight. “That I couldn’t protect you. Thank you for waiting for so long, for going to the lengths that you have. I’m sorry that I hurt you.”

“Oh, come here,” Crowley says roughly, pulling Aziraphale down with him. “How can somebody as clever as you be so stupid? There’s nothing to be sorry for.” 

Aziraphale tilts his head, resting his ear over Crowley’s heartbeat.

“For anything you think you’ve messed up, I forgive you.” Crowley runs a hand through Aziraphale’s light curls. “I love you. Ineffably,” he adds, for Aziraphale’s smile.

“I don’t think my side would like that,” Aziraphale mutters, tired, soft, and neither of them ever slept well without knowing the other was alright.

“You don’t have a side anymore,” Crowley replies, knowing, as he’s always known. He moves them both more wholly onto the bed so it’s more comfortable. “Neither of us do. We’re on our own side.”

Aziraphale hums, moving to kiss him again.

“To the world,” Crowley says into the breath that they share.

“To the world,” Aziraphale responds, meaning  _ I loved you _ ,  _ thank you _ ,  _ I love you ineffably. _

(Across the stars, in a galaxy far far away, is Earth. A demon who is deep down, at heart, just a little bit a good person and an angel who is deep down just enough of a bastard to be worth liking are dining at the Ritz. A nightingale sings in Berkeley Square.)

But at Alpha Centauri, Crowley sings Aziraphale to sleep and the Force welcomes them home.

(Flowing through all, there is balance. The Force is all things and I am the Force.)

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Thank you [contradictory_existence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/contradictory_existence) for helping me edit and proofread!
> 
> 2) Alpha Centauri is located in the same galaxy as Earth and is thus not "a galaxy far far away". For story purposes, I've elected to ignore that.
> 
> 3) I have long forgotten how exactly it is that the Force operates, so here it is used very loosely and often has a mind of its own.
> 
> 4) I tried to include every famous I-love-you, whether implicit or explicit, from both Star Wars and Good Omens.
> 
> 5) Music I listened to while writing:  
[Earth (Instrumental) by Sleeping at Last](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lEDECXDtPA8)  
[Saturn (Instrumental) by Sleeping at Last](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R-m7zi66ddc)  
[Binary Sunsets/Force Theme by John Williams (Star Wars)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eb2zuegwcwk)  
[Across the Stars by John Williams (Star Wars)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XoJXkVC5o7M)  
[Another Place by David Arnold (Good Omens)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PqNRsSS8bMU)


End file.
